Warning: this post is not shy on raciness, a topic we don’t usually broach, one very much a part of my testimony. For backstory, read my love songs.

We whispered as we walked to the dark station. Old, empty freights lined up next to the track. We climbed in one, and as we began to kiss, an 18 wheeler from nowhere slung into our pitch black, pumping his lights and pulling his horn, and he jumped out yelling and running before his wheels stopped. We said our first cuss words together and ran down the tracks as if Jeepers Creepers wanted our Peepers.

That was when I didn’t need to sleep and I wasn’t hungry, when chocolate  had no taste. 

Before the train station was the drive to a concert. The hole ripped in the knee of my jeans was wide, and he was able to stick his finger in and touch the back of my knee. There, a key turned, the curtain pulled way back, the lights came on, and a river sprang up. The first time his skin touched my skin, I was blind for minutes, while internal wires shot off all wildly exposed, awake, and setting fire.

Erotic love is a trick birthday candle.